


Anger

by TheWritingMustache



Series: Bad Moon Series [1]
Category: Assassin's Creed
Genre: Fighting, M/M, Transformation, blood warning, prequel fic, slight gore warning
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-11-07
Updated: 2012-11-07
Packaged: 2017-11-18 03:54:27
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,187
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/556613
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheWritingMustache/pseuds/TheWritingMustache
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The littlest things set them off. They got into arguments about the stupidest things ever. They always drew blood. Their other halves always got loose. It always ended the same way. Short, prequel fic to Bad Moon Hell Raisers. -oneshot-</p>
            </blockquote>





	Anger

**Author's Note:**

> I kinda forgot how bloody this one got.

They were fighting about something again.

He was only trying to be helpful, it wasn't his fault, really! Altaïr didn't mean to offend Malik, he really didn't. So his mate was having some slight trouble getting something off the top shelf, and well, being taller than the other man, he simply reached up and got it for him. Bad move. Malik instantly snarled at him to beat it, saying he didn't need any help, with anything, at all. Altaïr simply retaliated by saying he was just helping anyway, it wasn't a big deal. But apparently it was.

"I really could have gotten it myself you know, I'm not _that_ helpless" Malik growled at him, snatching the offending object out of Altaïr's grasp. A growl of his own rose in his throat; that wasn't how he wanted to be thanked.

"A simple 'thank you' would be nice, and you're welcome" Altaïr snapped back, turning away from his mate and to simply put some distance between them before it got ugly. Unfortunately it did when the object he pulled off the shelf nailed him in the back of the head. It didn't hurt, but the whole idea of something being thrown at him did not sit well with him. He whirled around snarling at Malik, the other man baring his fangs at him. Fangs. So, it was going to be on of hose fights. 

"The fuck is your problem Malik?" Aitaïr growled at, stalking back up to the one-armed man until they were practically nose to nose, canines flashing, threatening to sink into the other's throat at any given moment.

"My problem? I don't have one. Stop trying to help me with every little thing left and right. I am perfectly capable of doing things myself. If you want to be useful, stay the fuck out of my way" Malik growled back, chest heaving, sweat trickling down to his brow.

"Excuse me for trying to be helpful anyway, what, I can't do nice things for you anymore?"

"You're just a pest. Fucking leave me alone"

"Make me"

This was exhausting. Altaïr was mad at Malik, for nothing really. No, furious at him. Over something so stupid, yet they were carrying on like it was something very, very important. He was shaking, sweat escaping out of every pore in his body, and he could feel his growing claws dig into the palm of his hands. He was still getting used to this, trying to keep his other side in check, trying to be as in control as he possibly could. 

 Altaïr never had good anger control to begin with, the added aggressiveness of his other side did not help any. It wouldn't be long before Malik said something to him, made one move that would push him over the edge, may it be hurtful or not, things would go to hell faster then they already were. His other side would love to get out, to pounced at shred Malik to pieces. It was taking the last of his willpower to not jump his mate right there and then and be done with it before his other side could break free.

He knew Malik was having a similar problem. He could smell the wild muskiness off the other man, hear his heart pounding rapidly, see his eyes dilate, almost watch the his irises shift in color. Oh yes, it wouldn't take much to push him over either, they were both ready to jump, to attack and kill. Their pissing match only went on in silence, the occasional snarl or growl being let loose but other than that, they simply stood and stared. They both refused to break eye contact, hoping the other would finally cave and look away. But since they weren't, they went on to have their staring match for who knew how long.

Altaïr never used to fight like this with Malik. Their fights consisted of trading barbs and blows, not this silent fight of body language. But since their…accident two months ago, these types of fights were really quite common these days. Though, they always meant one thing in the end; sudden transformation. And even after the fifth time, it still was not a comfortable experience. This needed to end, now, or else they'd be trying to tear the other's hide off in a few minutes. 

"Stop it" he finally breathed, to Malik and somewhat to himself, an effort to hopefully calm them both down

"Funny, I could ask you the same" Malik muttered at him. Altaïr shook his head, but didn't break eye contact.

"I mean it Malik, stop"

"And why should I? So I can slink away with my tail between my legs while your ego increases in size? I don't think so. You stop, novice"

"Don't call me that" Altaïr hissed, the claws on his hands puncturing his palms. He _hated_ being called that. He was a Master Assassin for fuck's sake, no where near a novice! Well, _was_ anyway, but the term of novice didn't apply here! "I'm serious Malik, stop it"

"Novice"

"Stop. It."

"Fucking novice"

"Fuck you"

"I know you'd love to, but I don't do it with…novices"

So Altaïr punched him. Hard. Or rather, moved to punch, but only slashed at that annoying ass face. The deep, bloody grooves in Malik's face dribbled blood and gore, but like watching a video on fast-forward, the destroyed tissues and muscles repaired themselves. Skin twisted and stretched as the grooves damaged cells regenerated, regrew, reshaped and reformed before his very eyes. The skin went from red to pink, to a pale color and kept darkening until it completely faded away, as if there never were gory scratch marks on Malik's face at all.

Like it really mattered though. He had attacked. He had drawn blood. They had both smelled it, the scent of it was still in the air and oh, it was good. Really good. No, it was bad. Very bad. But a thought in his mind kept telling Altaïr blood was good, blood was wonderful. Get more. More was needed. Hunt. Attack. Kill. Get more blood, much much more. A bolt of pain lanced through his body, and it was starting to happen. He tried to speak, tried to tell Malik to…to…do something. Away. Go away. Get away. Leave. Run. Don't look. Don't be here.

But he choked on those words, whining from the pain that was blossoming across his body. A horrible, terrible pained whine sounded, but it was not from him. He only heard the thump of a body hit the floor, and he soon joined it. They were transforming. The attack, the smell of blood, them already angry. That was it. They were gone. Lost to the pain and agony of another body forcing its way to the surface of their own. To be shut away in a dark and tiny cage while something else ran free, something just as dark and terrifying as the cage. 

Six changes, and they hadn't even gotten to their third full moon yet. Oh Allah, have mercy on them.


End file.
